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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 

Chap.L^'T^yriiifht No..__...__ 

UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



THE OLD TOWN 
ON THE RIVER 




A Pictured Poem 



THE OLD TOWN 
ON THE RIVER 

A LITTLE BOOK OF VISIONS 

B , Y 

FLORA BULLOCK 



FHOTOGRAFHJ" BY MEJ/RJ". TYJ"ON AND RICE 
DRAWINGJ BY HARRIET HERJHEY 

1900 
THE IVY PRESS 

LINCOLN NEBRASKA 






Y R 

9 



8337? 

Library of Coopress 

1wo Cones Receivfq 

DEC 3 1900 

<n tiftJJfrignl entry 

SECOND COPY 

Oe<i»«red to 

ORO£rt DIVISION 

DEC_iaj900_ 




Arranged and Printed by Harry S. Stuff at 
THE IVY PRESS (Sign of the Ivy Leaf) LINCOLN, NEB. 



NO T THE Old Tozvn historical, social, nor 
commercial, but the Old Toivn beautiful, is the 
theme of this little Book. Traditions may best 
be told by those who helped ?nake them. But all 
sofoiirners are privileged to enjoy the beauties of 
the fairest region in Nebraska. . . . 

A PART of these sketches and verses were con- 
tributed to the colutnns of the Courier, of Lincoln, 
in the years i8gg and /goo. 



Oh, I would bring you 

A draught of this beauty, 
You who sit crouched 

By the high city wall ! 
I am a monarch, 

And this is my booty. 
To keep, 1 would share it, 
To hoard, I would bear it 
Away where the shut " in ones 

Struggle and fall. 



You see but patches 

And shreds of the skies j 
I own a dome 

Of that exquisite blue. 
Mine is the west 

Where the red sun dies, 
The east where he rises, 
That chief of surprises. 
To smile on my kingdom. 

And diamond the dew. 




The Green Things Gro-jcing 



Poor, and a beggar, 

I claim as mine own 
That sweep of the river, 

Broad miles of the hills; 
For over them often 

My spirit hath flown. 
The wild flowers blowing, 
The green things growing, 
For me the whole woodland 

Its perfume distills. 



God giveth the earth 

To those who most love it. 
O ye of the City, 

Speed forth from your gates, 
And stand on the hill ■> tops 

In wonder above it! 
A song's in the air; 
The earth everywhere 
Radiant in glory, 

Your worship awaits ! 



PROLOGUE 




A I T H THE PILGRIM -. 
"What manner of place 
is the Old Town ? " 

Saith the Interpreters 
" It is a leafy bower, 
a green allurement for 
birds, an imbiber o f 
showers, 

" It is a picture that 
cannot be painted, a 
poem that cannot b e 
written, a song that 
cannot be sung. 
"It is a hospitable inn for freighters, a relic for anti^ 
quarians. 

"In the morning it is a refresher of the sun, 
" At noontide it is an oak " tree for the earth. 
"In the evenmg it is a Dutch Lullaby." 

Saith the Pilgrim : " What manner of Folk are they 
that dwell in the Old Town ? " 

Saith the Interpreter i " They are a mystery unto 
themselves. For they know not whence they come 
nor whither they go, nor can they truly tell what 
they now are, 

"They are servants, not masters; even their food and 

their raiment cometh from the Bountiful Giver, 

"All of which doth but approve them the 

descendants of Adam and kin to 

all other Folk in the 

Wide World," 



THE OLD TOWN 



Where hills are fairest in splendor, 
And brightest of skies look down, 
Just at a bend of the River, 
There lieth an Old Town. 




HERE are Old Towns and 
Old Towns, even in fair 
young Nebraska ; — little 
burgs that the pioneers with 
unquestioning courage set 
along the great Piver in 
the days when few sus/* 
pected that it was the Jordan of a promised land, 
Rather was it deemed a Nile to a Sahara, But 
the conquerors came and deployed along the 
stream with their faces to the west, If you 
ramble where they paused, be not surprised if you 
stumble unawares upon rotted boards or tumbling 
bricks in the grass. For some of the Old Towns 
did not survive. Their records are kept in the 
memories of pioneers or in yellowed documents 
and newspapers. Others of these frontier cita,* 
dels had vitality enough to live, to thrive, and 
eventually to grow old gracefully, so that their 
names have become a charm, " known in sundry 
lands," The great army and the rear guard of 



conquest passed them by, The currents of Life 
left them almost as sandbars on the shores of 
Time. They seem content to stay where they 
have drifted and watch the world whirl by, A 
few have fallen not entirely out of the race. Yet 
like proud old dames, they ape not the fashions 
of the young folk, but sit and smile on their 
gayety, keep watch of the girth of their own 
oak-trees, and maintain sweetly that it is no 
misfortune to be old, when to be old is to be 
beautiful 

Nebraska City is known as perhaps the prettiest 
town in the state whose name it bears, It may 
be that the Old Settler has forgotten, and the 
stranger who wanders along the streets and 
beside the dun ,* colored water may not discover, 
the rare beauty and charm of the place, But 
come with me to a high aerie above the tree ''tops, 
above the gray roofs and steeples, watch the Old 
Town as it basks peacefully in the softened 
sunshine among its venerable oaks, know it in 
its different moods and varying seasons. There 
will always be, then, though you may travel 
far and view the splendors of the earth, a little 
picture in your memory, — well worth keeping, — 
of a quiet, dreamy city, one f fourth house / roofs, 
and three ,' fourths tree /tops, set on gentle slopes, 
and with face to the Morning, 

But you will not see the glory of the Morning 
if you watch from your low earth dwelling. You 



must betake youfself to some high look /- out, 
The temples of Phoebus are set on the hills. 
Behold! He comes up over the River, looking 
drowsy, and Jaded and worn from his long, 
unrefreshed night journey, ( You may doubt 
this, but indeed if you arise early, you will learn 
that it is very true ) , Then his glance falls upon 
the Old Town, and eagerly he quaffs the foamy 
bowl of mist brewed over night on the river 
and in the low vales between the hills, quaffs it 
as rich red wine. Soon his clouded face grows 




A Repose all Nature's Own 



clearer; and the Old Town turns toward him, 
like a Nebraska sunflower, gathering brightness 
as it worships, 

Then too. if you walk low streets, you may 
think that the glory which rose beyond your 
neighbor's house sets in the slough behind his 
barn. But it is really true, as you have read in 
poetry, that the Life ^ giver sinks to his rest far 
away among the hills. Often and often he wraps 
the Old Town in a wonderful cloud of red dust 
of gold ere he bids farewell. And seldom does 
he leave without rending the cloud ,* drifts for a 
last smile and caress. Golden Nebraska sunsets ! 
— to see one once is to wonder ; to see them 
day after day is to feel that God is good- 

But the beauties of the Old Town are not 
reserved wholly for him who knows it from a 
bird's point of view. As a city of trees it has 
charms for every wayfarer, especially for one 
who has erewhile sojourned on the treeless plains 
of the west, It is hard to credit the Old Settler 
who tells you that these great oaks and elms, 
these spreading maples and stately walnuts were 
planted by the pioneers. One would think rather 
that Nature had the hills all in readiness for the 
coming of the Paleface, that his home might 
grow up under the trees, not the trees around 
his home, Yet the Builders so wisely supple >> 
mented Nature that the Old Town has long been 
a beacon in a wilderness. How pathetic, in 




reality, is the 
thought of the little 
fellow, born among 
the sand ''hills, who 
told his Sunday/ 
school teacher that 
Moses must have 
lived on a tree/ 
claim, or he would 
never have seen a 
burning bush- 

The Old Town is 
only a tree / claim 
grown venerable. 



The sight of the 
great mass of green 
leaves and broad 
trunks would be a 
holy feast to the 
hungry ones of the 
sand / hills. But it 
must also be a de / 
light to every lover 
of nature, and every 
artist. The grouping 
and coloring seem 
unsurpassable, and 
often a camera will 
secure a picture 




worthy to hang in the salon. There are 
broad, level avenues where trees separate 
just enough overhead to show a crescent of blue 
sky; great landmarks on corners, that you come 
to know as a friendly greeting when you 
pass by them; and on one side street you will 
surely notice a sturdy old Middle^of^the^Roader, 
who stands, a lesson in independence, to every 
passer-by- The trees recognize no caste among 
men, for the mightiest oak may shelter the 
humblest hut; and cottage and mansion alike 
has each a group of noble friends. 




None but a plainsman who has lived where 
straight, level streets stretch away into nowhere, 
— unless it be to the place where, as someone 
has put it, "y°" ^^^ ^^^ ^^V ^^^^^ tomorrow 
coming up over the prairie," — can appreciate the 
pictures, with background and foreground, that 
the Old Town Folk call streets. Many a road 
that leads to the east affords a glimpse of the 
River, and the blue,' shadowed bluffs beyond; 
this dip in the road looks down into a shady 
dell, and that, to a bridge over a miniature gorge. 
That little slope, beside a leaning fence and 
overhanging branches, with a bit of the River 
far beyond, must surely be a scene strayed from 
some New England hillside, Even on Main street 
it is hard to catch the spirit of barter and trade, 
for the hazy atmosphere of perpetual afternoon 
hangs over the valley at the foot of the long 
descent. But the people you meet are nineteenth 
century Folk, and you may forget that you are 
in an Old Town, Perchance the Great Tinkling 
Limited will pass, and you will regain the proper 
perspective. Electric cars? Pray let no modern 
suggest it! It would completely spoil the Old 
Town, 

But the Spirit of Progress has already committed 
well '' nigh unforgivable sins even here in a land 
of romance. It has mocked at ancient relics 
and broken to fragments the hieroglyphics of the 
past. Strange anomaly ! The Old Town has a 



clear, mathematical, India » rubber street nomen ^ 
clature, which might be the envy of all unin-' 
spired Moses striving to lead other cities out of a 
wilderness of errors and alphabets, The poetic 
names of a race that may itself become only 
a name in history, were fittingly bestowed by 
the Builders- But Kiowa, Nemaha, Pawnee, Otoe, 
and the rest, were thrust out of their tepees to 
make room for the Idea of the Paleface- We 
have no time for romance, say you ? We are 
too busy with our mills and shops, our stores and 
offices, our schools and churches and societies? 
We are proud of our industries and success, and 
are in as much of a hurry as the rest of the 
world ? 

It may be, and it may be well if it is so, But 
to those who gaze day after day from a high 
look-out above the Old Town, it is a place of 
visions, a quiet, dreamy city, one <* fourth house » 
roofs and three -- fourths tree ^ tops, clinging to the 
hills just at a bend of the River, 




HIGHWAYS AND BYWAYS 



Up hill, down dale, 
Through darkest hollows j 
Where one has gone before, 
Many another follows. 




A N D E R I N G Indian trails 
that lie hidden in the grass, 
that have been filled with 
the drifting leaves of many 
autumns — what stories 
they might tell! Paths 
beaten so hard and deep that not all the rushing 
torrents of fifty summers, nor the thaws of as 
many springtimes, have effaced them. Perhaps 
you may discover one as you ride along in your 
cushioned carriage, for the Paleface has often 
followed where the Red man marked the way. 
You may wonder to what happy hunting/* 
ground, grassy council '-seat, or primitive work " 
shop it might lead, if you could trace it. But 
corn has tasseled and wheat has waved on too 
many hillsides, and the wigwams of the Palc'' 
faces have clustered too closely on prairie and 
plain, Yet few of the reminders of our strange 
Age of Fable kindle the imagination more than 



an old Indian trail, 
winding among the 
grass, and leading — 
whither ? , , , How 
sternly the narrow 
track speaks of the 
loneliness of man in 
this world, and the 
mystery of his end. 
It is something the 
same with the high/* 
ways of the Palc'- 
faces, But they are 
more spacious ! they 
suggest companion '' 
ship, and might tell 
tales, also, if tongues 
were granted. They 
are best when the 
River and the hills 
that bulwark it 
have thwarted the men of the rod and chain. 
Your section » line road may lie never so pleas'- 
antly between hedgerows and great old trees, 
beside majestic corn - fields and tall banks of 
sunflowers ; but it will never yield the subtle 
enjoyment, the pleasurable sense of expectation, 
that comes to one who follows a winding path, as 
Nature decrees. Then every bend or turn is a 
question - mark, a speculation in futures. It is a 




special blessing if you are a stranger and must 
needs ask your way, for tlien you may come 
upon some old farmer, an ancient mariner of the 
prairies, who will stop his nag with a slow jerk, 
and, after deliberation, will tell you that your 
true course lies this way, then that way, then 
past a white house, then across, and over and 
beyond, How it stimulates your bewilderment ! 
Roads lead out from the Old Town to many a 
spot that is fair. They will conduct you past 
venerable orchards, — small need have we to 
wonder at our great Foremother ; between fields 
where the rustling corn grows tall and stately ; 




A Little White Mill in the Wildwood 




upon level avenues under the shadows of lofty 
walnut trees ; close to a white mill in the wild >> 
wood i over red bridges, where you may look 
down into a quiet pool, or mimic cataract; until 
at last you come out upon a high bluff where 
the wind blows free from the River, and you 
can view the " Big Muddy " in all its majesty, — a 
fitting climax of your pilgrimage. The road 
that does not afford you at least a glimpse of the 
old River may be pleasing, but it is like an 
unfinished picture, a sonata robbed of its final 
chord. Once, it is told me, there was a veritable 
River road high on the bluffs. But it has gone 
the way to oblivion with the Indian trail, and 
lies buried beneath corn.'fields ; or perhaps it may 
be that the River wooed and won it, and bore it 
away in the night. 



What an impressionist is Nature ! She does 
not favor every clime with her great exhibition 
pictures, canvasses adjudged the prize by all men, 
But her simple beauties, her lesser works of 
wonder, are everywhere in the world, Surely 
the Old Town has fared well at her gracious 
hands, partly because the builders of the city gave 
her aid. The River, a masterpiece in water 
colors, is the chef d'oeuvre, and the Hills are 
perfect in drawing and coloring. But her gallery 
is filled with sketches of smaller design, pictured 
poems that to see once is to remember always. 
There are turns in the road where the sunlight 
lies tangled with leaf shadows in your path, and 
the most beautiful blue of all is before you at the 
crest of the hill. The trees, sprung from wind ^ 
blown seed, are grouped with a repose a 1 1 
Nature's own. The dull gray roads of men are 




A Walnut Drive 




A Venerable Orchard - Arbcr Lodge 



framed, where Nature has her way, in gorgeous 
settings, — flowers of purple, scarlet, and gold. 
Oh, she splashes color on her canvas as no 
disciple of hers would dare ! 

Well, to ride along such highways and byways 
is a true worship for a Sabbath afternoon. One 
would wish to keep on roaming. But when the 
twilight comes, like a beautiful gray angel, whose 
robe is silence and shadow, and whose breath is 
a soft hand on your brow, then it is good to 
turn your face back to the Old Town, feeling, as 
men of every kindred have felt, that the best 
road of all is the road that leads Home, 




THE RIVER 



Whirling and swirling, swift and strong, 
O River, pause and answer me ; — 
What is the burden you bear along ? 

The River paused not, nor answered he. 
Yet I caught one strain of his murmured song ; 
"I bear the Mountains down to the Sea," 




FT E R all. though the noble 
Red man perish from the 
earth and be "as a tale that 
is told," he will leave a 
precious legacy to the race 
of Palefaces ; he may go to 
his happy hunting-grounds 
with never a bend in his proud neck. The 
names that in his gladness or in his fear, with 
his unspoiled child instinct of description, he 
bestowed upon river and mountain are ours 
without prick of conscience. Yet truly we did 
borrow, like the new neighbor that we were. 
We sprinkled the picturesque names of these 
real Americans like salt from east to west, and 
from north to south, over almost every acre of 
our fair land. No return was required, but surely 
we must repay in recognition. One shudders to 







A Landmark, on a Corner 



think what names might have befallen us other >- 
wise- The seventeenth century Anglo <• Saxons 
lacked the pictorial powers of the Red man. To 
their wondering gaze everything was New this 
or New that, or else for the sake of policy or 
man "glorification, it must be called after the dis'' 
coverer, the founder, or one of the Great Ones 
in the mother country, The French and the 
Spaniards gave many satisfying names in the new 



land, but their " St," and their " San " grow a little 
wearisome, Fortunately, no one with an 
infallible, expansive system of ncmenclalure 
was on the ground to fix such names as East 
River, East Branch, Middle River, North by 
North " west Fork, or the like. So we are blessed 
in having the Connecticut, the Ohio, the mighty 
"Father of Waters," and the "Big Muddy," It 





A Mimic Cataract 



is a boon for which we might be very grateful, 
in a world where Romance is dying. 

Inconsistent as it may seem, all sons of Noah 
love flowing water, A bubbling, gushing 
mountain brook is a stream that flows from the 
heart of Nature to the soul of Man, But even 
the swirling old Missouri, famed among the 
nations, wallowing around among its mud^banks, 
possesses a fascination that all must feel. True, 
it flows muddy and yellow, choked with sand^ 
bars, and the bluffs along its sides rise barren and 
steep. It lacks all the suggestiveness of purity 



that belongs to the crystal " little rivers/' so loved 
by wildwood wanderers. But it has a majesty 
and grandeur, like the mountains that give it 
birth, Walk beside the water's edge, let its 
influence then have complete sway, and you 
will find that a silence falls upon you, as if you 
were listening to a benediction, " It quiets a man 
down like saying his prayers, I have roamed 
beside streams that seemed an invitation to 
laughter, But the mood of the Big Muddy is an 
impressiveness approaching solemnity. Its deep, 
ceaseless song is an epitome of the anthem of 
the Universe, 




A Guiet Pool 



The awful sense that the River is crawling 
leaves you, if you stand close beside it and 
watch it swirling and eddying on its way. There 
is motion, swift as the waltz, but the rythm is 
slow and steady, so that one would not tire, 
though he sat and gazed all day. It flashes and 




4 



An Arbor Lodge 

sparkles in the sunlight, and when the wind 
blows, as it still does occasionally in this rescued 
desert, the white >> caps spin along right merrily. 
Yet on the whole the River seems a sedate old 
servant, bent on carrying out its homely mission. 
Seen from the bluffs of the Old Town, the 



River is a wide, glassy highway that winds 
unwillingly on the Nebraska side, yoked by its 
enemy, the long bridge- If it were not for the 
bridge, might not the river riot at will over the 
wide valley? The Iowa bluffs in the distance 
are the daytime haunt of the purple and gray 




A Middle-of-the-Roader 



mists that creep out in the night to cover River 
and Town, Once the River sang its song nearer 
to their feet, Who knows but it may do so again, 
though riprappers work like beavers all winter 
long? 

If you would appreciate the deeper meaning 



of the Red man when he decreed that all who 
followed him should say "Big Muddy," you had 
best clamber about the bluffs as he did, and find 
your lookout unhindered by roads. Yet several 
highways leading from the Old Town will take 
you to views of magnificent sweep, Follow the 
road over Kearney Hill to the southeast, past 
pleasant, thrifty old farms; a delightfully rough 
byway, — would you always have smooth saib 
ing ? — leads through an uncanny willow swamp, 
and at length up the bluff by the back door. 
Neither brush nor camera can picture that view 
for you, — the wide, many '- colored valley, level 




In the Park 



as a floor below you, with a silver ribbon winding 
and turning in the midst between great ramparts, 
— winding away to the north and away to the 
south as far as eye can see, What a mighty 
course it runs, this strong old River that guards 
a Promised Land ! 

Merry rivulets trickle down through brush 
tangles to join the rolling current ; in the valleys 
are quiet bayous where waters pause and placidly 
mirror the sky in their depths. But the River 
heeds them not, It never rests, it never sleeps, 
lis beauty is the beauty of Power, It is kin to 
the Ocean and to Eternity. 




THE GREEN-CLAD GLORY 



I have watched for your coming 

With eager eyes, 
O Robin red! 

Yet you showed suprise, 
And flung up your head 

With a guilty air, 
As if you would speak. 

But did not dare; 
Lest your wondrous secret 

Might whisper through 
The innocent note of a 
"How d'ye do?" 



You set me a - dreaming 

This May -' March day. 
Though trees arc bare 

And the hills are gray. 
Your unsung song 

Beats within my breast; 
You need not tell, 

For I know the rest, — 
There's a jubilant. 

Green-' clad Glory that waits 
With her fairy wand. 

At our Southland gates! 



rv 














ARCH winds may 
scurry across hills and 
whoop through hollows, 
but the Robin, winged 
Mercury that he is, comes 
house '' hunting betimes, 
and we, in implicit 
confidence of the signal, begin to watch for the 
great transfiguration that he heralds. Then more 
than at any time else, should you possess a high 
lookout, from which to keep watch of this slow 
work of wonder, It is not enough to observe little 
patches of grass and a tree or two from your 
parlor window. If you would feast on the ever*' 
new beauty, learn a lesson of the birds ; hie thee 
to the hills and build thee a house on stihs. 
Those favored men who have always made 
their homes in the high places will perhaps not 
understand what a revelation a springtime 
above the trees brings to the unaccustomed, It is 
as if one had never known the majesty of trees 
before, no matter what aUars of worship he may 
have built at their feet. 

To keep watch above the Old Town on the River 
as Springtime woos and wins it is a precious 
experience. Yours is the privilege of discover/- 
ing the first tinge of green under the frost that 
sparkles blue and white on the lawns ; to you it 
is given to note the first freshening of color in 
Cottonwood and birch, the delicate reddening of 





J 



A Quiet Bayou 



maples and elms. Day by day you may see the 
new life throbbing before you into beauty, the 
skies warming above you to milder hues, the 
strings of sparkles on the hillsides that rush to 
throw themselves into the quickened River, glad^ 
dening the heart of schools boy and girl; the 
River itself, silvery white and flashing as it flows 
broader and swifter than before; the greening 
of pastures and fields far and near ; the white 
and pink of orchards in bloom ,'— Oh, it is not 



everywhere that one can see such mass and 
tumult of beauty, even though the Springtime 
touches all earth with gladness. 

Wonderful, balmy dream days, — N ebraska's 
best — come and go, the miracle of April passes, 
and in early May days you will find the Old 
Town arrayed as Solomon in all his glory might 
never be, After the winter snows, when it 
looked haggard and thin as it crouched beneath 
gaunt branches, right gladsome is the time when 
the Old Town comes to iiself again, a noontide 
oak-tree for the earth, a restful vision for weary 
eyes. So it remains through blazing summer 
hours, while the corn grows tall and stately, till 
the day of harvest come. 



RED LEAVES 



How the hills blaze I 
'Tis the blush of frost ^kissed leaves, 
The gold that wonderful summer days 
Have stored in yellow sheaves. 
But away in the shimmering air 
The pageant of gold everywhere 

Melts to a purple haze. 




HEN THE great King 
Scyld had "departed to 
the All "Father's keep" 
ing," his comrades, as he 
himself had bidden, 
placed him in a "ring" 
stemmed vessel," clothed 
in his most royal robes, with all his far "gathered 
jewels and treasure, his burnished weapons of 
warfare about him, "On his bosom sparkled 
many a jewel." Above him, " high under heaven," 
floated a gold " wrought banner. Thus in royal 
state the tide bore him away, while his well " loved 
hearth " companions stood on the shore and gazed 
in mournfulness, 

It is in such splendor and richness that 
Summer slowly sails away, "trailing clouds of 
glory " as it departs. Never so gorgeously bedight 




Like a Burning Bush 



as in the hour of passing, never so dear as in the 
days when we watch it drift from us. Other 
Summers will come ; but they may not be so 
fair, we think, and we shall be changed, or mayhap 
shall have floated away in our own lonely barge 
to a far / off sunset bourne, So to all men 
Autumn has ever been a season that brings a 
mournful message, arrayed though it may be 
in the glory of a King. 

The Old Town is surely a favorite canvas for 
the great colorist. All hues and tints must be 
used, for the trees and grasses and trailing vines 
are of many varieties. However tenaciously 
they cling to their sober midsummer dress, 
there comes a day when they drink of a softly falb 
ing Autumn rain, and shiver a little in a breeze 
that whispers a strange story to them. Then 



quickly is there a flash of color over all the 
scene, — scarlet and crimson, yellow and orange, 
wine " color and maroon, shaded browns and 
grays ; new shoots on reluctant elms add the 
very color of spring ; here is a tree whose leaves 
are half green, half gold, there a gray old trunk 
with a flame of woodbine creeping around and 
up to the highest twig ; the grasses along the 
wayside are of unwonted brilliant hues, and every 
lone tree stands like a burning bush, Always 
the pines grow darker and darker as a back -- 
ground ; and always the sky that arches above 
all, — whether blue or gray, harmonizes, A soft, 
shimmering veil of blue -- white haze, — Nature's 
inimitable fashion, — graces all. In such days 
you should look out over the Old Town, and 
away to its Sunset hills, where it may be granted 
to you in the evening, to see the sun sink in a 
sea of gold, transfiguring earth and sky with 
un '' named brightness. 

There' come gray, dripping days, when the 
bright tints are washed from the leaves, and 
the wind dances them away, A twilight of somber 
color covers all the landscape. The trees become 
bare, gaunt shapes, no longer a hiding place for the 
habitations of men. Still there is summer's 
deep green on many a grassy slope. Sunny 
November noontides bring enchantment, and 
on the lawns belated butterflies flit around 
dandelions lured out of hiding. But be sure 



that finally a warning will sweep from tfie nortfi, 
the last fluffy dandelion will be blown, and the 
roysterer Winter will have his turn with the Old 
Town, the Hills, and the River. 

The End 




